Despite all his affected diffidence, he did very much want another hit. He just didn’t quite know how best to introduce it to his bloodstream without further blackening the blood vessel or touching the horrid gunge oozing from the part of his arm he normally jammed the stuff into.
He was pushed for time, but the plenishment of her vaginal warehouse was a vital task and he set about it with vigour.
He did a backflip, but alas, he’d chosen the worst place to do so, and the thousands of yards he fell gave him time to contemplate his folly before splattering beautifully on the excrement-smeared cobblestones.
Lick and suck the gleaming, veiny wanger, get her nails done or defuse the bomb? Argh! It was an impossible choice!
Surely there was only a certain amount of other people’s earwax-infused pus a man could reasonably be expected to quaff, but still, that amount was in the centigallons and he was still at the stage of vomiting violently after each sip from the first beaker (with faded Power Rangers print). He was determined to get through it, though. What doesn’t kill me makes m-HUARRRGGGHHHH!
Yes, he was wearing couture vicuña briefs. No, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be spunking into them. It didn’t even mean that he hadn’t already (he had).
She had bollocks bouncing off her chin, and all was right with the world.
He grunted aggressively and without warning, a stiff gust of stinking gas blasting forth into the ill-prepared faces ahind his colono-rectal pipework and causing not one but two of them to wrinkle in disgust before vomiting, albeit only into their closed mouths, leaving them able to tidily dispose of the chunder out of the window in one case and, after an undignified struggle, back down their scalded gullet in the other.
He accepted that anyone who dares to host a party will be left with a big clean-up in the morn, but even so, he was dismayed and really quite angry to find that among the cans, the bottles, the sticky spillages, the improvised ashtrays and the hundreds of discarded nitrous oxide canisters, his so-called friends had also left not one but twelve full logs of poo, four times as many nuggets and, yes, a whole wall decorated with an almost impossible number of bogeys.
“What?” she spluttered indignantly. “I risked my life saving yours! I should get a medal!”
“I’ll give you a medal,” he said with a snarl. “Kneel down.”
She knelt expectantly. Something seemed wrong, but she assumed that this must be part of the medal presentation. Damn it! If she’d known, she would’ve got her family to come and watch. She would’ve dressed in her best, got professional makeup, arranged for a photogr- SPLAT! He’d launched the medal onto her face with his big wanger and was now strutting away. She was amazed that the ceremony was over so quickly, but also very proud. Only after he had sped off in his Proton Saga did it dawn on her that his bestowal had not in fact been a medal as such but rather a stringy cord of pubic mucus.